Here to Stay (Where Love Begins Book #2)

by Melissa Tagg

  She was grateful Mom had been quick to offer to put them up, hadn’t even blinked when Autumn mentioned Lucy was now living with her. Autumn paused, washcloth lifted halfway to her face.

  What if Mom’s sadness didn’t only have to do with her worries about the inn, but about Autumn’s leaving? Considering all she’d gone through with Dad, considering Ava’s distance . . . did Autumn’s plan feel like the final break in their family tree?

  I don’t want to hurt her, God. But if I don’t get out and start living my own life now, I never will.

  And she could end up just like Dad, trapped in a headlock of regrets. I have to go.

  She scrubbed at her face, hard, smearing away her makeup and leaving in its place, splotches of red.

  “Have you prayed about this, Autumn?”

  Autumn had waved off Ellie’s question the other day, because, well, yes, she’d prayed . . . but only halfheartedly. Never listening long enough for an answer.

  Because she couldn’t risk the answer being “Stay.”

  But God wouldn’t actually ask her to give up France, would He? Not after she’d waited this long. Of course, maybe the real problem wasn’t so much what God might ask of her . . . but whether she’d even hear it, if He did answer. Somehow in the past months of financial worries—or maybe the past years of listless longing—she’d lost her ear for His voice.

  Or maybe He’d just stopped talking.

  She wrung out the washcloth and slung it over a towel bar. The bathroom, decorated in warm earthy tones, had always been her favorite place to think before moving to her cottage at the inn—especially in the deep, oversized tub.

  But tonight she’d been too tired to even fill the tub. Autumn picked up her pile of clothes, then paused. What was that? She waited, heard another sharp rap.

  She padded out of the bathroom, shuffling in her slippers. One more rap . . .

  She dropped her clothes, clamping a fist over her mouth. A face at her window. Heart hammering, she stalked to the window and thrust it open. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Blake perched on the overhang that sheltered the side porch. His cheeks were red—either from the exertion of his climb or the cold. Probably both. Crazy man.

  “I wanted to talk.”

  Thank the Lord she’d skipped that bubble bath. “You haven’t heard of a phone? Or, you know, like a front door? How did you even know I was here?”

  He climbed in the window. “Called the inn. Jamie said you were staying here tonight. You never gave me your cell phone number, so . . .”

  Autumn flounced over the clothes she’d dropped and walked to her desk. She scribbled down her number and pulled the Post-it from its cube. When she turned, she was face-to-face with Blake. Did he have to stand so close? She stuck the Post-it to his light blue button-down shirt. “There. My number.”

  He peeled it from his shirt. “So you want me to climb back out the window, go stand at the curb, and call you from there?”

  She folded her arms instead of answering. Swell, she’d chosen her white pajamas with pink and red hearts. Second time he’d seen her in her PJs, and it wasn’t any more pleasant than the first.

  Suddenly the humor seeped from his expression and he turned serious. “Where were you tonight? I needed you at that meeting.”

  She inhaled. The meeting, she’d completely forgotten. “Blake, I’m—”

  “And why didn’t you tell me you invited William Baylor? The man can’t stand me. In fact, newsflash: Most of the people on that committee can’t stand me. They don’t like me. They sure don’t like my ideas. And the one person I thought might back me up didn’t even bother to show.”

  “I’m so—”

  “I needed you there.”

  If he’d let her get a word in edgewise, she might explain. The fire, Lucy, Mom. But behind the anger in his voice was something surprising and . . . raw. For some reason, his shoulders didn’t seem as broad tonight, not with his arms hanging limp at his side and his stance sagging like a man fatigued. He ran a hand through his disheveled dark hair, then pinned her with his gaze.

  “Blake, what happened at the meeting?”

  “Nothing worth reliving. It was a mess.”

  “I’m really sorry.” The apology tumbled from her, so sincere it surprised her. “You’re right, I should’ve been there. I shouldn’t have made you face them all yourself.”

  Listen to yourself, Autumn. He’s a man. He doesn’t need coddling.

  That was probably part of the problem. His . . . manliness. His dark eyes, his height, that unshaven jaw that could’ve starred in a shaving cream commercial. His presence in her bedroom set all her senses on edge.

  “We can have another meeting.”

  Blake’s eyebrows lowered. “Not sure they’d show up.”

  There was that maternal feeling again. Except the way he captured her gaze, the way she couldn’t look away . . . Oh, boy, not maternal.

  She broke eye contact and took a step back. “There was a fire at my house today. That’s why I’m here.”

  He blinked, jaw dropping. “Are you serious?”

  “Nothing major. Kitchen wall’s a little black. Something wonky with the wiring.”

  He palmed his forehead. “And that’s why you missed the meeting. I’m an idiot.”

  “You’re not. You didn’t know. And I should have remembered to let you know.”

  “I practically bit your head off.”

  She bobbed her head from side to side. “Eh, still attached. Still working.”

  His grin turned on then, and he took a breath, gaze wandering around the room. She followed his vision, trying to see the room through his eyes.

  Built-in faux bamboo bookshelves lined two of the four walls. The other two walls were painted a vibrant grass green. Her white bedspread matched the area rug underfoot. An antique trunk took up the space under the window—or in Blake’s case, the entrance.

  “More books,” he observed. He pulled a book from one of the eye-level shelves. “Swiss Family Robinson. Like the movie?”

  “That’s backward, but yeah.”

  “Ryan and I used to pretend we were Fritz and Ernst. I always wanted to be Fritz, but Ryan forced me to be Ernst because I’m younger.” He scanned the rest of the shelf. “Lot of biographies. Lots of travel books. Mostly fiction.”

  She stepped up to the shelf. “My dad encouraged my bookworm tendencies. He loved reading to me—Robinson Crusoe, Gulliver’s Travels, Peter Pan, anything to do with adventures.” She shrugged, remembering the smooth tone of Dad’s reading voice. The way he’d close the book when a chapter ended, then ask Autumn where she’d travel if she could. Which character she liked best. Which one she’d most like to meet.

  Blake tapped a book back into place, eyes on her as he did.

  His study sent her into self-conscious mode, and she reached up to slip her hair behind her ear. “Hey, let me show you something cool.” She nudged him out of the way, then found the hidden clamp inside one bookshelf. Just a minor push and the whole section of the shelving, from floor to ceiling, moved. “Hidden passageway.”

  Blake perked up. “No way.”

  “Yes way. My Dad made it when I was little.” She ducked in. “Come on.”

  Her hand found the switch inside the adjacent room and light filled the space. Ava’s bedroom, just like she’d left it last time she was home—last Christmas. “Dad thought it’d be fun for us to have a secret entrance to each other’s room. Ava and I were by far the most popular on the sleepover circuit in grade school.”

  “I bet.” He turned a full circle, probably laughing inside at the pink and lace décor—which was especially funny considering Ava’s tomboy demeanor and love for football. “I don’t remember your dad all that well.”

  “Well, it’s not like our families mingled.”

  He grinned, but only for a moment. His eyes seemed to latch on to something on Ava’s closet door. He walked over, fumbled through the items hanging from the ho
ok on the back and pulled off a jacket.

  Autumn inhaled sharply. She’d forgotten.

  He turned to face her, slowly. “My mom . . . she looked for this before the . . .”

  Funeral. Ryan’s college letter jacket. Why hadn’t she or Mom or especially Ava had the decency to return it to the Hunzikers?

  “I’m sorry. We should’ve . . . I never thought to . . .”

  He just stood there, holding the coat in one hand, like a man frozen. And before she knew what she was doing, Autumn closed the space between them. In a tentative move, she threaded first one arm, then another around him. Her cheek found the crook between his neck and shoulder and she just . . . stayed there.

  He smelled of soap and his chin scratched her forehead. Warmth slid from her head all the way through her, down to her toes, leaving winged flutters in her stomach. Lord, what am I doing?

  But right when embarrassment threatened to push her away, Blake circled his own arms around her. Tight, as if holding on for life. She could feel the staccato of her heartbeat. Or was that his?

  “Blake, I’m . . .” Her voice was muffled, her thought directionless.

  I’m what? Sorry, for the hug? No, not really. Suddenly way too aware of how perfectly she fit into his hold? Yes. Definitely, yes.

  “You don’t have to say anything, Red.”

  So she didn’t.

  8

  Honestly, Red, when we made this deal, I was thinking more along the lines of hefty, manly projects. Bob Vila–type stuff.”

  Blake’s flustered voice came from the other side of the fake Christmas tree only half assembled in the Kingsley Inn’s long den.

  “Instead, I’m playing interior decorator while your tree attacks me.” A branch rustled, and Blake’s exaggerated groan drew giggles from Lucy, who dug through a box of ornaments on the couch.

  Autumn leaned against the fireplace mantel, hiding her smirk behind the manual they’d found in the bottom of the tree box. “You call it attacking. I call it protesting. You’re putting it together wrong.”

  A fire crackled in the fireplace, and the buttery aroma of popcorn still lingered in the air, even though they’d already eaten every last kernel.

  Blake appeared from the behind the tree, fake pine needles decorating his shirt. “I don’t need a manual to tell me how to put together a fake tree.”

  She looked from Blake to the lopsided tree and back to Blake. “I’d argue that point, but then you’d launch into another diatribe on how I always argue.”

  “You do.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Score one for the Hunziker team.” He drew a tally mark in the air. “And anyway, like I was saying, I . . . am a man.”

  “Uh, yeah, nobody was questioning that.” Hadn’t she lain awake until after midnight last night thinking about that hug in Ava’s bedroom, trying to shake off the feel of his arms around her? Or, well, fine—replaying those minutes pressed against him over and over while simultaneously trying to convince herself she hadn’t relished every second. Wishing she could get his dimpled smile and perfect torso and dark eyes out of her head?

  And that was another thing. Where did he get off having such luscious eyelashes? A mascara ad would kill for those lashes.

  Manual in front of face. Hide blush. Get a grip.

  Maybe it would’ve been better to relegate him to some other job today. It’d been distracting enough trying to get through their festival to-dos this morning while holed up in her office. But at least they’d made progress. Despite the messy meeting he’d described to her the night before, things were moving along.

  “I am a man,” Blake was still talking. “And I should be doing something masculine. Like ripping up old floorboards or knocking down drywall or installing crown molding.”

  She lowered the manual. “Installing crown molding is masculine? Didn’t you just spend four weeks living with a woman who does all that for a living?”

  He picked up a loose branch from the floor. “Fine. But if you ask me to pick out new potpourri for the guest rooms next, it’s not happening.”

  Autumn stifled a laugh and plopped next to Lucy on the couch. “Lucy, never let a man tell you what is and what isn’t women’s work.”

  “Oh, I won’t, Miss Autumn.” Lucy’s face was pure seriousness.

  “And Lucy, never agree to deals with feisty women before reading the fine print.” Blake batted at a branch jutting from the tree.

  Lucy only giggled at that. She’d giggled at everything Blake said. The man had charmed her within seconds of stopping by—just like he had his adoring public during the month when Randi Woodruff had paraded him around as her husband. Autumn would never admit it to him, but she’d caught a couple of the TV interviews he’d done back in October. He had the kind of face cameras loved.

  But it wasn’t a phony role he played as he interacted with Lucy today. He seemed to take special care to make her smile—complimenting her bell-shaped earrings and promising she’d get the privilege of placing the angel atop the tree. At the same time, he didn’t treat Lucy as somehow different or in any way beneath him.

  “Ooh, I like this one,” Lucy said as she pulled an ornament from the box beside her.

  Autumn recognized it immediately. The ball was swirled in glittery blue and green, made to look like a globe. “There’s a little on-off switch on the bottom.”

  Lucy found the switch and turned it on, holding the ornament by the gold hook at the top. The globe twirled beneath, the hum of its tiny motor joined by the lilting melody of “What a Wonderful World.”

  “My sister and I bought that one for our dad when we were kids.”

  Blake stepped away from the tree. “Because of all his traveling stories.”

  Eyes still on the ornament, she nodded. “He usually left the holiday decorating to us and Mom, but he always insisted on hanging that ornament himself.”

  Lucy held the ornament toward her. “Then you should hang it.”

  Funny how such a little piece of glass and metal could erase the years and draw so clearly a picture of their happy little family as they used to be. But as quickly as the image appeared, it scratched away.

  And just like they always did, the questions scribbled through her mind: Had Dad always been unhappy? How long had he been planning to leave? Would he really have gone through with it?

  Autumn stood. “I’ll let you do it, Luce.”

  Lucy shrugged and bent over to place the globe next to the other ornaments she’d arranged in neat rows at her feet. No shrug from Blake, though. No, instead his gaze pierced her with uncanny understanding. The heat of it flustered her, and she reverted her focus to the window.

  A late-afternoon sun slipped through the sheer fabric dangling down from the gold-knobbed curtain rods over the windows.

  Autumn blinked. “Well, we should get this finished. This room is going to look spectacular when we’re done. We’ll string lights around the tree and over the mantel. We’ll hang stockings and put up the Nativity. It’ll be the perfect mingling spot for the Christmas party.”

  Every year the Kingsley Inn hosted a Christmas party—a mix of guests and community members. It hadn’t been as big these past years as it used to be, not with hotel numbers dwindling and Whisper Shore losing some of the holiday magic that used to light up the town.

  But this year . . . This year she was going to do the party up right. It would be Dominic Laurent’s first night in town. And she aimed to show him the Kingsley Inn could still be the life of the shore.

  “So am I invited to the party?” Blake was back to poking branches into their spots on the tree.

  “Sure, if you want to come. But if you do, you have to be on your best behavior. I’ve got that potential investor coming, you know.”

  Blake rearranged a couple branches to fill in a see-through spot on the tree. “Right, right. Dominic Somebody-or-other.”

  “He is, by far, the best Christmas present I could receive this year. Well, that and the return
of Whisper Shore’s annual snowball fight. Remember that?”

  “Of course I do. Who do you think still holds the records for snowball-toss yardage?” He flashed a smirk. “If Mother Nature would ever give us some snow, we could resurrect the tradition. But I promise to behave at your important Christmas party. I won’t even call you Red, if it helps.”

  “Very good.” Although, she’d kind of gotten used to the nickname.

  “Honey or sweetheart or muffin, maybe. But not Red.”

  “Blake.”

  “What?”

  He did the completely innocent look so well.

  “Hey, Miss Autumn, I think your mom’s here.” Lucy pointed out the window.

  Autumn’s gaze zipped to the window.

  Ohhh, not good. Not good at all. Mom emerged from her SUV, long black coat cinched at the waist, high-heeled boots peeking out from underneath. Autumn spun, pointing at Blake. “You need to leave.”

  “Uh, and go . . . ?”

  “Anywhere. Away. My mom would rather run into Fidel than you.”

  “Castro?”

  “You know any other Fidels?”

  His smirk resurfaced. “Ooh, I could hide in the tree.”

  Think, Autumn, think.

  “Come on.” She snatched his arm and dragged him to the lobby. Staircase. If she could get him up the stairs before Mom climbed the porch steps . . . “Go up.”

  She pushed him. Did the man have to be so . . . big and strong and stuff? But at least he took the steps two at a time, throwing a couple glances over his shoulder as she chased him up. “Then what? I climb out a second-story window?”

  The front door creaked open.

  Autumn yanked on the door of the first guest room. “In there.”

  The cinnamon scent whiffed from the room, where a canopied bed stood front and center. Blake ducked his head into the room, then turned back to Autumn, held up both hands in a halting gesture. “I’m flattered, but really, Autumn, I’m not this kind of guy. We haven’t even been on a real date.” Laughter danced in his words.